Nobody Said It Was Easy
by rita-leeq
Summary: JacksonOC. Takes place immediately following the movie. NO JXL. The Organization Jackson works for is tracking him down, and a woman from Jackson's past is making several apperances, whether good or bad. Really suck at summaries, just read it.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hey guys! Another story that I've had in my head for a while. Please review once you've read it. And I'm sorry that there is no Jackson and Lisa pairing.

Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. I do own Marisa.

It was a time like this when Marisa wanted to take a heavy stick and hit her job over the head with it. In the Organization (they never called it anything more specific than the 'Organization') she worked for, it was drilled into all recruits from Day One that if the Organization were to ever come under scrutiny or attack, 'members' had forty-eight hours to disappear.

Case in point: the arrest of Jackson Rippner for soliciting terrorism, conspiracy to murder, assault, battery, and false imprisonment. Never in the history of the Organization had their top managerial employee been taken into custody.

The news of Rippner's failure reached an international level, alerting all 'members' to take the best course of action: Drop whatever you are doing and disappear. The clock was ticking. Though Rippner's name, picture, or other information retrieved by the police was never distributed publicly, any hacker or terrorist organization could find it in a few simple clicks.

Marisa, being the meticulous manager herself, took the first plane out of the States to a safe house in the south of France, where she would await further instructions. It was not the _best_ course of action in her mind, but certainly the _safest_ and most effective.

He was given permission to make a phone call, one measly phone call.

Jackson grimaced at the only phone available to him in his current state: he hospital – where he was slowly, but surely recovering – phone. He knew for a fact that when they had handcuffed him to the bed, they had also implanted a bug in the phone, just to keep an eye on him. But he was smarter than that.

"Hello, mother," he rasped into the receiver (his vocal cords were still sensitive from his forced tracheotomy).

"Jackson?"

"I'm going to jail."

"So I've heard. Nice of you to call. You should have done it earlier."

"I'm afraid that Reisert bitch was a bit of trouble, excuse my language. I called because I need you to do me a favor."

"What's that?"

"Have you seen Marisa lately?"

"From what I hear, she's busy."

"Tell her I love her."

There was a long pause. "She's left Jackson. Couldn't stand this place.'  
"Where to?"

"No importance to you. But it would be tough to try and contact her. She's disappeared from the radar, so to speak."

"Of course, they've all disappeared."

"Sooner or later."

"Well if you can reach her in the next…" he paused to glance at his wall clock (they had removed his Rolex). _Bastards,_ he thought.

"In the next forty-eight hours…"

"I'll do my best."

Neither said goodbye. Jackson replaced the phone, the watchful eyes of his guard taking it from his hands and replacing it on the far table. If they had tried to trace the call they would have come upon an address in suburbia Connecticut, where Rippner told the police he was from. They wouldn't have to ask too much questions.

Now all he had to do was wait.

------------------------

On the other line, miles away, sitting in a desk chair located in the confines of the Organization underground, Linda, an elderly secretary with graying hair and wrinkles replaced the phone. She had been working for the Organization for over thirty years and never in her career history as the Organization had to enter this kind of pandemonium.

She jotted down a few notes on her pad and picked up the phone again. Dialing the number of her superior, the Boss.

"That was Rippner. He requested Marisa," she told him remembering the series of codes she had exchanged earlier. "My guess is Marisa Hodges, old partners, and rivals," she added.

The Boss listened with a stony expression. "She would be impossible to find. Who knows where she could have disappeared? How much time do we have?"

"Rippner said forty-eight hours."

"That's plenty. Start trying to find Marisa."

She hung up for the second time in the last five minutes without a goodbye. Linda knew that Rippner knew the rules of the Organization and what procedures were taken if they were endangered. One being the lockdowns and security measures that the computers went through on all its information, each level increasing its need for codes and security checks. From what she could tell this was an emergency, so she had to be quick.

It was time for Marisa Hodges to come out of hiding.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

----------------------

The Cours Mirabeau served as the very heart – the _cours_– to Aix-en-Provence, a _vielle ville_, old village, in the south of France. So far, Marisa had been enjoying her time spent in hiding from the "real world."

On this particular day, she found herself at the famous terrace café,_Les Deux Garçons _(the Two Waiters), having a breakfast of omelets and bread served with jam and margarine. She was also sipping from a "grandes crèmes" one of their specialtycoffees. She had very little to complain about.

Aix-en-Provence (pronounced Aches-en-Provence) certainly had its charm, with its tree-lined avenues giving plenty of shade, terrace cafes, bookshops, and fountains. (Marisa had counted six already.) The air was warm, the light divine, and the whole area felt alive, teeming with history and ignorance. The kind of ignorance Marisa wished she had.

Her job as a manager at the Organization seemed to place a constant cloud over her head. There were so many boundaries, rules, stress, and heightened sense of alertness that all came hand-in-hand with multiple headaches, injuries, and plenty of guilty-consciousness'. With the Organization staying on the down low, one could wish this kind of emergency would happen more often. Clearing out her schedule to make time for herself and actually enjoy her surroundings, instead of always feeling she had to look over her shoulder; it was something she hadn't done in a long time.

After paying the bill, Marisa left _Les Deux Garçons _and made her way across the Cours Mirabeau. She passed one of the many fountains, this one known as the 9-cannons fountain, which stood in the middle of the street.

Every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, a number of markets set up their multicolor arrangements of food, flowers, clothes, and other knick-knacks. Saint Madeleine Church served as the backdrop for all of it.

She made her way over to the first stand, a table holding ornate pieces of jewelry. She looked through the pieces, eyeing each one with a careful, well-trained eye.

"C'est le plus cher," said a voice to her left. _That's the most expensive._ Marisa nearly dropped the wood-bead bracelet in her hand. "127€," the man said from next to her, he seemed to be the supervisor of the jewelry displays.

She nodded and replaced the piece of jewelry, moving to another booth. This one was a flower vendor, selling large sunflowers, which gave off the most beautiful smell. She contemplated buying one, but thought against it. Her temptations were tested again, when she passed a tray of éclairs and pastries, for a very cheap price. The vendor, an aging _dame_, practically shoved a _tarte aux pomme_ (apple tart) in Marisa's hand so she couldn't refuse. It turned out to be _très délicieuce_.

The market was filling up with customers fast, Marisa saw this as a good time to head home now, not wanting to spend any more money or time here. On her way out, she tripped on something and stumbled forward.

She would have hit the ground, except a pair of strong arms caught her, pulling her to her feet.

_Stupid heels_, she cursed herself. "Merci beaucoup," she told the man who had helped her. It was the jewelry peddler from before, the one with the expensive bracelets.

"Ce n'est pas grave." _It's not serious._ He took her hand in his, holding them as if they would break. She felt something hard in her palm, but before she could think too long on it he let her them go and walked away, back to selling his jewelry.

Marisa didn't want to draw attention to herself, something the Organization had taught her. So she walked back towards the Cours Mirabeau, her hands still clenched together. When she came to a busy intersection, she looked down at her hands. It was the wood-bead bracelet she had been admiring at the markets. Only this one had a slip of paper attached to it. She untied the velvet ties to pull the thin paper off, unfolding it in the process.

_Gratuitement_ was all it said. _Free of charge._

To anyone it would have appeared that she had just received a very expensive bracelet out of the kindness of someone's heart. Though that was true, it was only partial, especially to Marisa. _Free of Charge_ had a double meaning – she could thank the Organization for this knowledge – she was being called out of hiding. She was free of her charge, free to become Marisa Hodges, hired assassination manager, again.

With that in mind, she doubled her pace home. The Organization was going to try and contact her now. She had to be ready.

Home was a second floor suite at the Hotel Ravel d'Esclapon (with its proud stone walls, nicely faded, and large windows), located on 9 Cardinal Street in the Quartier Mazarin, just south of the Cours Mirabeau. The Quartier Mazarin was an area full of "hôtels particuliers" or town houses dating back to the 17th century. It's main attraction was the exquisite "Fountaine de Quatre Dauphins" (the Fountain of Four Dolphins) at the crossing point of the Rue du 4 Septembre and the Rue Cardinale.

The interior of Marisa's suite was hardly special. A single lamp and chair in the entrance hallway, a small bathroom, a modest kitchen tucked into the corner of the building, an adjacent dining room, and a bedroom, complete with master bathroom, all with familiar and inviting views only the second floor could offer.

Coming into the small suite, Marisa dropped her purse on the welcoming chair. Toying with the bracelet in her hands, the note shoved into her pocket was extracted and immediately thrown into the kitchen sink. She then proceeded to light a match and burn it.

A part of her had been happy to see the hastily scrawled French words, practically screaming her freedom. _Free of Charge_. She could be normal again…whatever normal meant. But at the same time, she had become depressed in finding that all too familiar creep on her neck at every turn, the fear and anxiety of being watched. She would have to leave the quaint little town of Aix-en-Provence, which seemed to remain thoroughly sheltered.

When the note was nothing more than a pile of ashes, the phone rang.

"Allô?" She said into the phone.

"Mademoiselle Hodges?"

"Oui." _Yes._

"Êtes-vous seul?" _Are you alone?_

"Oui, bien sûr." _Yes, of course._

"We don't have much time to talk. We don't want to be traced. A car will pick you up at 8:01 this evening outside your apartment. Bring _one_ suitcase. Do not be late."

"Where will I – "

The line went dead. The conversation had been over and done in less than twenty seconds. Marisa didn't have much time to dwell on it, so she hung up and went to her room. One suitcase could hold plenty; it was all she had anyway. She began to pack.

Marisa had changed her clothes three times before she finally felt satisfied in cropped pants, a thin sweater, and a jacket. Now standing in the autumn night, she was shivering from the cold, wishing she had chosen those jeans instead.

It was currently eight o'clock, according to the clock tower, which had begun striking the hour with a series of bells. She stood outside her apartment, her one rolling suitcase in one hand, and her small purse in the other. Tied around her wrist was the wood-bead bracelet with the velvet tie, a token of her stay in France, but also of her discharge, her discharge from a chance of living. Now it was back to hell.

She heard the sound of a motor. _A car?_ _Her transportation?_ It came down the street, lights cutting through the darkness, coming to a full stop before her. The driver got out and made his way to Marisa.

She felt like laughing out loud, which would have been highly inappropriate for such a serious situation. It was the jewelry peddler.

"Mademoiselle?" He greeted her with a small nod, holding out the door for her. She returned the nod of acknowledgement and climbed into the backseat. The jewelry peddler – if that was his real job? – took her suitcase and packed it into the trunk of the car – a black, tinted window, leather interior seating – Peugeot 607. It was probably the most luxurious car in the area.

The driver/jewelry peddler/Organization member stepped into the drivers seat. Marisa was about to ask him what his name was, when he answered for her, in English.

"It's Gregoire. Greg for short."

"Marisa," she introduced herself to the older man. "Are you a messenger?"

"And a driver."

"Where are you taking me?" His eyes, a dull blue color, caught her pale green ones in the rearview mirror. If she had blinked she would have missed the quick glance, for they moved back onto the road ahead of them.

"No questions," he said, then added: "Remember you're still not fully 'free of charge.'"

Marisa found herself smiling at the back of his head. "You must have a knack for tripping people?" She could his cheeks crinkling into a smile.

"It was the only way I could give you your message. Consider it one of my specialties." His voice had a slight regional accent to it. If one weren't looking for it they would have never noticed.

"Are you from around here?"

Greg shrugged. "When I am not working for the Organization, I spend my free time here."

"Selling jewelry?" She lightly touched the bracelet on her wrist.

"Depends."

The drive didn't last much longer. When Greg had parked the car, Marisa recognized that they were at the Aix-en-Provence TGV station.

"Why not just pick me up in a jet?" She suggested to Greg as he opened the door for her.

"Too much unwanted attention. We'll be traveling like normal people?"

"We?"

"My instructions were to take you as far as Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris." He opened the trunk and pulled out Marisa's suitcase, followed by a second one, which she assumed was his own.

The TGV, Train à Grand Vitesse (high speed train) holds the record for the fastest wheeled train and the highest average speed for a regular passenger service. At exactly 8:12 pm, Greg and Marisa were leaving Aix-en-Provence, heading for Paris Gare de Lyon. It would take just under three hours.

"What other information do you have?" Marisa asked, once they were settled in their compartment.

"Nothing."

"Not even my flight information?"

Greg shook his head. "Messengers aren't allowed to know too much. But from what I've heard, you're the first one out of 'charge.' No other active member has been contacted."

Marisa willed herself to sink deeper into the seat, trying to melt away from her surroundings. Being the first one called out of hiding was usually for a major operation. But for what, or for whom, Marisa couldn't fathom.

_Then again_, Marisa reminded herself. _ We are dealing with the Organization. Very few knew what they were getting themselves involved in with the Organization._

----------------

Jackson was a firm hater of hospitals. He hated the smell, the squeaky clean façade, the sounds, and – more importantly – the nurses. Just an hour ago, one had come into his room, all cheery-eyed and smiling, holding a tray of hospital food (another thing he hated about hospitals).

"Hungry?" she had asked him, placing the tray in front of him, while strategically bending over in such a way so that he could catch a glimpse of a lacy push-up bra down her shirt.

He didn't reply, but rather continued to glare daggers at her (clearing avoiding her chest), wanting nothing more than to take her skinny, little neck in his hands and squeeze the living breathe –

"Your face is bright red, did you that? It might make you feel better if you breathe?" He did, straining the muscles in this throat from his wound.

"How are the injuries?" The smiling nurse asked, looking so oddly happy that Jackson was afraid she might piss in her pants.

"Can I make another phone call?" He had asked instead, his voice scratchy and hoarse.

"I'll see what I can do?" She winked at him and left.

Well, that was over an hour ago, and the nurse hadn't come back. He was beginning to doubt that he would ever make that call. It had been a little over twenty-four hours since his last phone call to Linda at the Organization. Surely she would have made some progress.

His musings were interrupted when the door opened. It wasn't the nurse.

Detective Tucker Browne was a tall man – with typical police intimidation skills – cropped dark hair, and hazel eyes.

"Good afternoon, Rippner."

"Tuck." Jackson addressed the detective, however brief.

"Miss Reisert filed a restraining order," he said, settling himself into a seat and resting his arm on the small table. "300 feet."

Jackson didn't say anything, but Tucker saw a muscle clench in his jaw. _Peachy_, he thought.

"They're going to discharge you tomorrow," Tucker continued. "You'll be transferred to a medium security cell without bail."

The only change in the young man's face this time was the slight raise of his eyebrows. "Only medium?" There was humor evident in his tone.

"All the maximum security cells are in use. But that doesn't mean we're letting you off easy. You'll be staying there until the trial."

The room lapsed into silence.

"Can I ask you a question?" Tucker asked after a few sufficient pauses.

"If I say no," Jackson croaked, "you'll ask it anyway."

The detective smirked, but then became serious again. "Who hired you?"

"I'm not entitled to speak until my lawyer gets here."

"Don't give me that bullshit. Look," he leaned forward in his seat, bringing his hands together to keep them from wanting to smack the other guy so hard he fell off the bed. "The FBI is sending one of their guys down. He won't hesitate for a second to beat the living shit out of you."

When it appeared that Jackson wasn't going to open his mouth any further, the older man sighed, running a calloused hand through his short hair in frustration. He stood up. "Fine," the detective said, holding up his hands as if accepting defeat. "I'll get you a lawyer and you can release a statement, until then your stuck here. In the meantime, I'll send Brooke in here to keep you company."

"Brooke?" One delicate eyebrow had risen until it became lost behind his dark hair.

"The nurse with the creepy smile that makes her jaw look like it's about to detach itself from her face." He smiled when he saw Jackson's eyes now widen, and he seemed to look…afraid?

"She said you wanted to make another phone call. Sorry Rippner, I can't let you do that." He turned to leave. "Until we meet again." He left to room to Jackson staring a spot on the wall.

--------------------------

The Boeing 777 jet was already soaring above the clouds, heading across the Atlantic Ocean. The lone passenger in the first-class cabin was busy stirring her drink – a Cape Cod – and idly flipping through a magazine.

She came to a page, listing the in-flight movies, playing at all hours, when a slip of paper fell out. Checking to make sure the flight attendants were nowhere in sight, she bet to pick it up. It was a plane ticket for First Class Seat 27K

She replaced her magazine and left her seat – 14A – to the next cabin. This one was empty too, save one person in seat 27K.

"I had a feeling I was being stalked," she told the man sitting in the seat.

"You've been requested Miss Hodges."

Marisa stared at the man. The Boss rarely ever became involved with the employee's or clients of the Organization. He had been a top assassin in his past life; nobody doubted that he was any less of one now. He rose easily through the ranks, traveled all over the world, and was wanted in over 100 countries.

The Boss had become no less attractive, in fact he seemed to defy human nature of aging by being more handsome at an older age – a mere forty-six years old. His once thick blond hair was thinning and graying in some places. His eyes held that kind of wisdom laden with images of the people he had killed and the grief and destruction in his wake. He was not a man to the challenged against.

And still Marisa was in awe that he was right here, sitting onboard a plane no less, a common people's plane. (Such peoples with the prestige The Boss had made for himself did not fly on commercial jets.) He looked like a businessman on his way to work.

"I beg your pardon?" Marisa stuttered, now finding her voice once the initial shock at finding the man she presumed was untouchable and had never seen the real world had – in fact – spoken to her.

"Perhaps you should sit down?" He gestured to the open seat next to him.

Marisa took the seat without question, her legs seeming to collapse underneath her as she plopped into the cushions. She felt the overbearing aura emanating from the Boss that she had trouble hiding from him. The man was a legend hardly anyone knew his name, he was just the Boss. She had the idea that many people felt an inferiority complex in his company.

"I must say, sir, that it is an honor being here with you…sir. But I just – I can't understand why you have to see me so urgently."

The Boss drew in a deep breath before he spoke in a thick, British accent. "It's a matter of the Organization's security, or rather a specific member of the Organization's security."

Marisa's mind spun with possibilities, the Boss answered for her: "Jackson Rippner. He's requested you. I believe his exact words were…" His hand came up to rub his chin thoughtfully. "Tell her I love her."

_Tell her I love her. Tell her I love her. Tell her I – Oh shit!_

"Seriously?" She breathed, the meaning of the words finally sinking in, she seemed to forget her manners in front of her superior.

The Boss didn't move. "Yes," he replied in a tone that suggested it was not in his best interest to lie. "Do you accept?"

Her pale hands twisted in her lap. "How?"

"We were thinking kidnap, but if you have any other ideas…"

"He's in jail?"

Even in the dim lighting of the overnight flight, Marisa clearly saw the small twinkle in her Boss' eyes and the smile playing on his lips. "Hasn't stopped us before."

_Sometimes I think I forget who I'm dealing with here_. "Why me? I don't do kidnappings."

"Because you're our top manager," the Boss said simply. "After Rippner, of course."

There was a long pause, the only sound being the distant hums of the powerful jet engines.

"No," said Marisa finally.

Now it was the Boss' turn to be surprised. He leaned backward in his seat, his eyebrows lifting in the slightest manner.

"I'm not going to be the one to hand Rippner's job back to him on a silver platter."

"Who said anything about Rippner getting his job back?" The Boss interrupted Marisa, who found herself staring once again into his steel gray eyes.

"Rippner is the perfect role model of a washout. Because he is being brought under investigation, so is the Organization. His clients were not happy with his –err," he coughed nervously, "…negligence, and the Organization can only protect him for so long. As of now we are flying under the radar. We had to override thirteen security codes just to find where you were in hiding and have Greg contact you all in less than twenty-four hours. This has been no easy task, believe me."

For just a split second, the dark circles under his eyes and the sudden dullness behind those gray eyes were visible. Though in a blink of an eye, the Boss snapped back to his authoritative demeanor.

"But if you really don't want to take the job (even though you've been specially requested), I understand you and Rippner go back a long way."

"In no way is my refusal because of a personal vendetta, sir. I just –" she stopped, catching his stoic eyes again. She found herself doing that a lot.

They were empty. His calm expression did nothing to help her choice of words either. She was – after all – face to face with a former sharpshooter, these kinds of people were good with hiding emotions.

"You have until the end of the flight to make a decision."


	3. Chapter 3

** A/N: ** This chapter starts off in the past and then goes back to present day, which is really just a week after the movie takes place. Just if there's any confusion. Sorry I haven't updated, was hit with a bit of writer's block, but quickly recovered, mostly because I've been really busy. Expect more updates because my spring break is approaching which gives me plenty of time to continue writing/editing/updating.

Please send a review!

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_March 18, 1995_

"And what is your interest in working for the Organization?" The anonymous voice asked her. Marisa couldn't see the person speaking, all she could see was the table before her and the chair she was sitting in, and even those she couldn't see very well, the bright light of a single high powered bulb was the reason for her temporary blindness.

"Well," said Marisa, her knees trembling. "I was curious, about a lot of things. I'm studying political science at Stanford University, and well…it's just not enough.

"Yes, but why?" came the deep, gruff voice again, pressing her.

"All right, truth be told…" she swallowed, "…I like the thrill. I consider myself a very organized, type-A personality. I want to know the answers. I want to know that there is more than what is given before me. And I know that from working for you could drive me insane, or commit suicide, or retire early, but at least I'll know that I had a taste, a taste of the real world, the stuff you don't see everyday, and…"

Marisa trailed off.

"How old are you?" It was the same voice that spoke from no visible mouth.

"I turned eighteen last July."

"The Organization does not have a motto, but if it were, what would you think it would be?"

She quickly stifled the laugh rising in her throat. "Aim high, shoot low."

"And what would be your primary interest in work ethic? Do you like to kill people?"

"No, sir. Management."

"Do you like to travel?"

"When I can, yes."

There was a long pause. Marisa thought maybe they'd be kicking her out any moment, and then she heard. "Welcome aboard, Miss Hodges."

--------------------

The phone call of confirmation had come nearly six hours. It was now early morning and still dark outside, and Marisa had been watching the news since then. She had had a great success: Jackson Rippner was now out of jail. All thanks to her criminal managing skills.

She could have left Miami by now, but she had only been there for two days and wanted to enjoy the late August for just a little more time. A train leaving for Chicago was departing now, Rippner would be on it, and then disappear completely. That was the plan. The authorities could only chase him for so long.

Besides Marisa's expertise break-in of his jail cell was flawless, of course she hadn't been the one to do it. A team of two men, disguised as guards did her dirty work. She had little time to celebrate, for tonight was her third sleepless night in a row. The first were spent planning his escape. Tonight she stood n the living room of her rented apartment, eyes glued to CNN morning news just waiting for the story of the assassin's escape.

So far there was nothing, just a Larry King Live rerun.

"I thought you didn't do kidnappings?" said a voice from behind her. Marisa jumped out of her skin, turning around to face the interloper, her heart about to fall out of her chest.

None other than Jackson Rippner was leaning casually in the doorway of the living room, hands in his suit pockets, looking not at all like someone who had just been in prison no less than six hours ago.

Marisa found herself blushing furiously at her appearance. "What are you doing here?" She grabbed the nearest couch pillow she could and used it to cover up her bare belly – being dressed only in her bra and underwear. (It was early in the morning, she hadn't been expecting, and she was hoping for just a few hours of precious sleep. Neither of those ideas worked.)

"Calm down Missy, it's nothing I haven't seen before." He smirked at her, then added: "I knew you would get me out of trouble."

She suddenly couldn't find herself able to talk. There was something different about him, Marisa noticed. A slight croak to his usual silky, smooth voice, his eyes – an artificial blue – were surrounded by large bags and wrinkles, like he had aged about ten years in the last few days. He certainly wasn't the young college graduate she had met all those years ago. It was something his job could attribute to.

But Jackson hadn't moved. "I just wanted to see the brains behind the operation before I left. Though, I didn't expect it to be like this." He inclined his head to her almost naked body, a laugh echoing the room.

"How long has it been really?" He asked, suddenly standing upright, taking a step into the living room. Marisa complied by stepping backwards (Jackson pretended he didn't notice) still clutching the small throw pillow, which was really doing nothing at all in covering her up partial nakedness.

He answered the question himself. "Too long."

The back of her thighs hit the small table at the other end of the room. Her hands reached themselves behind her back to open the small drawer.

Her throat had momentarily closed up. He was just making small talk. He took another few steps towards her, a smile forming on his full lips, but Marisa thought it made him appear much more intimidating. Who knew what kind of ideas were being considered through that brilliant mind of his. _ Did I just say brilliant?_

In what she considered to be defense she shot her hand out from behind her back, clicking the safety off the small Beretta in her hand.

The feeling of the gun suddenly gave her the courage she needed. "You're supposed to be halfway to Chicago right now."

Jackson stopped walking towards her immediately, his eyes leaving her to stare down the barrel of the gun. His eyebrows rose not in surprise but in curiosity.

"Oh come on, Missy, you can't be that unhappy to see me. Can you?"

Marisa's answer was the swift cocking of the gun, which didn't really needed to be done since it was a semi-automatic. To Jackson it was a clear threat: She would shoot.

"Leave," she said, swallowing back a dry throat. His shallow pools – the stark blue color once again making her breath catch in her throat – flickered over her body, leaving a tiny prickling on the hairs as his eyes roved down her bare legs and back up, resting on her stern face. Their eyes met and held for a moment longer before he shrugged and turned away.

"Well, if that's the way you want it. I guess I'll see you around." That was the last thing she heard him say.

After hearing the sound of her door being shut she started to breathe normally again. The Beretta was still out at arms length in front of her, aimed directly at what had been Jackson's head.

_He had been here. In the same room. Alive and still…still dangerously attractive. And I almost shot him._ It was certainly was the not the way she had imagined their meeting to go after not seeing each other for many years, mostly she was still in shock that their short-lived confrontation had actually happened.

In the background the sound of the television met her ears, reporting a breaking news story.

"…A medium security prisoner has gone missing, police say. There is no evidence of how it happened. The prisoner – name withheld – was facing charges from last week's attack on the Lux Atlantic in downtown Miami and the conspiracy to murder Deputy Director of Homeland Security Charles Keefe. The FBI is currently looking for the fugitive, and we ask all viewers to be on the lookout for anyone suspicious. We'll bring you more information as we get it."

_Please be on the lookout._ They had warned her. _ A little late for that, don't you think?_ The screen cut to a commercial. By that time, Marisa had fled to her bedroom and begun to pack, tossing the couch pillow back where it belonged. It was time to leave Miami.

------------------

Jackson had to make one more pit stop before he left Miami.

Lisa Reisert was coming out of her apartment, dressed for work, heading towards her car at a quick pace. Jackson guessed that she had been watching the news that morning and had heard about his escape. And yet here she was, determined to get back to her old life, escaped assassin manager possibly stalking her again or not.

"_We'll talk again."_ He had told her, right before she mercilessly shot him in the chest. His ribcage gave a groan and stung with pain at the memory. He watched Lisa's car back out of her driveway, and then make her way to the Lux Atlantic on the other side of town.

Jackson's hand paused over the shift controller in his car. A part of him wanted to drive after her and catch a glimpse of her coming out of her car and practically run across the parking lot to the safety of the Lux's lobby. She was wearing her usual skirt suit, and for some reason he found himself imagining the curve of her legs as she ran, the hem of her skirt just gracing above her knees, showing off strong calves from many years as a field hockey player…

_Stop it._ He chastised himself. _It's not getting personal._

It wasn't true that he had a crush on Lisa, those kinds of things were for hormonal challenged high schoolers, and Jackson was not going to stoop to their level. He had more of an admiration for the woman who had unequivocally ruined his career. (Rumor had it the Boss was less than willing to grant Jackson amnesty.)

"Good-bye Leese," he said to her receding car, shifted his car out of park, and drove off, this time occupied with someone else's long bare legs in mind.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey! Sorry for the long wait had some last minute stuff that I needed to do. But I'm on Spring Break now officially :) Enjoy this chapter, it's very long, but very important. We start out in the past and move to present day aka about two weeks after the Red Eye flight. xoxo rita

_**December 14, 1995**_

"How long do we have?"

Marisa looked down at her legal pad, all forty-seven pages of notes, to confirm the question. "After he signs the peace agreement, the Serbian President will exit through the back exit. You, Charlie, will be waiting on the rooftops on the opposite building, with a sniper gun. You have about ten to fifteen seconds to aim, shoot, and reach your target."

They had been over the details of the plan three times already, but they were just taking up time.

"You can do it," Marisa assured the sharpshooter, a new kid by the name of Charlie Redwood. He was seventeen years old, and already a highly trained assassin; ready to kill people left and right. This was his first mission, and his most important.

Marisa, being the meticulous manager, had left plenty of room for error. If Charlie had not been able to make the shot (though she highly doubted it), he would not be able to make the same move through the bulletproof windows of the President's car.

"When you make the shot. You leave the site. Don't wait around to call me for confirmation. Leave, or they'll be on you like vultures."

"I get it," he snapped. Marisa had made an assumption that cold-hearted murderers could be extremely moody just before a kill, some kind of hormonal internal raging.

"Okay. I just don't want you to forget. Repeat the rest of the information."

"I go down three blocks, check to make sure I'm not being tailed. Call you from a payphone. And if I am being tailed to send you a text message on my cell to leave the country."

"Right. I'll have an unmarked car waiting for you to pick you up at our location if you do send that text message. But only if you are _sure_ you lost them."

"I know what I'm dong." Charlie began twisting his fingers in nervous knots, his shoulders jumping at the slightest noise. Marisa couldn't relax either, but she preferred to keep her unstable feelings inside, not wanting to set off the nervous teenager anymore.

"Calm down. You're not going to screw up. I'm not letting it happen. You can trust me?" She laid a steady hand on his thin, maybe too thin, this kid needed to eat.

His expression didn't change; instead he turned an odd shade of green like he was going to be sick. _Come on Charlie, shape up. You've done this hundreds of times in practice. Why back out now?_

Charlie's watch beeped. It was time. "I'll be here," Marisa told him. And Charlie left.

Once he was out of earshot of their hotel room, serving as headquarters. He picked up his phone, oddly trembling. He dialed a long distance number. The phone rang three times before it was picked up. The other person didn't speak, but Charlie knew he was there due to a heavy breathing filling his ears.

"I'm leaving the site now. Inform whomever you need to," said Charlie.

"So far so good, kid," came the gruff reply. "Don't screw this one up. We'll take care of your manager for you."

"Don't hurt her."

"That's not in our interest. Marisa will be just fine. Consider yourself a hero, Charlie. American schoolboy saves the President of Serbia. But, you should have left this to the _real_professionals."

Charlie hung up. _Please, please, let everything be okay._

Unbeknownst to him, a pair of crystalline blue eyes had been watching him the whole time.

---------------------------

Marisa had been pacing for a good hour in the hotel room. She kept her phone on, currently sitting on the desktop, silent and still. The room looked like no one had been living in it. The beds were made and there was no luggage. (Marisa had taken the liberty and the precaution to pack her car after Charlie left, she needed a quick exit when his call came.)

She could trust Charlie. She had to. They had been working together since the start of their training, she a manager, and he a sharpshooter. Now they were partners, assigned their first mission, ready for the official world of politics in the Organization.

Planning for the assassination of the President of Serbia had been in the works for two months now. Ever since the Dayton Agreements in November had the plans been put more extensively into action. The president was as corrupt as anyone Marisa had ever seen. He was responsible, according to their private patron, for the genocide and civil war among the Serbians. He would not be greatly missed, in fact his death might end the war and the slaughtering of the innocent..

A knock came at the door. Marisa quickly abandoned her post by the window, watching the setting sun, unlocked it and opened it.

It wasn't Charlie, but rather someone else.

"Yes?" Marisa asked.

"Good afternoon, Marisa."

"I'm sorry, who are you?"

"Damage control."

Before she could think too long on it, the stranger suddenly grabbed hold of her shirt and shoved her into the room, slamming the door behind him. Marisa immediately went into panic mode as soon as his hands touched her. She took hold of his wrists, trying to push him off, but it was no use. He was uncannily strong, for someone his size – just a little taller than Marisa, who was somewhat short to begin with.

His hand clamped tightly over her mouth before she was able to get a scream out.

"Quiet," he seethed. She responded by digging her nails into his forearms, he winced slightly, but did his best to ignore the pain.

"Charlie's an unusually good boy, isn't he?" He asked.

He smiled gleefully at her widened her eyes. "Unfortunately, Charlie's not as nice as anyone would like to think."

Marisa took this moment to slap the man, who couldn't have been much older than her either, leaving a red handprint across his cheek. He didn't move for a good two seconds, neither did she. They were just staring at each other. Marisa noted his sparkling eyes, although at the time shewouldn't have described them as that – they were a clear, blue color, cold as ice, and yet…they regarded her with a kind of surprise (maybe that was from the slap).

They were so dangerously close. Marisa could see the freckles dotting his nose, and the sight of his eyes were making her uncomfortable, he still held her in an iron-grip, but he hadn't moved yet. Suddenly he bucked his hips, and the lower half of her body was slammed into the wall. Marisa groaned from the abrupt pain as she hit the wall. Now she was trapped even tighter.

"We're on the same side here, Marisa," he practically spat her name. "Just so you know: It's your friend Charlie I have a concern for."

"He's a novice," she was able to say.

"We see this in a lot of new recruits. Charlie's a mole, a traitor. He's selling you out this very moment to the CIA."

"What are y– "

"Shut up and listen." She did, however reluctant. The blue-eyed man continued. "We have evidence that Charlie has made contact with CIA agents in the area, informing them of the going-ons in the Organization."

"Bullshit. This is Charlie. He's seventeen…"

"Unusually young to be a hired assassin, don't you think? We didn't have his loyalties from the start."

"Let me talk to him."

"Did he try to contact you?"

"What?"

"Charlie! He hasn't called you." He wasn't asking her. He knew. "You know why? Because he wasn't going to do it in the first place."

"I don't believe you," Marisa found herself yelling at him, even though he was about four inches from her face. "Charlie would never contact the CIA. He's just a kid."

"A kid making the biggest mistake of his life. He sold you out."

"I'm not going anywhere until I hear from Charlie. Our mission is complete."

"You're mission was never going to happen"

"Liar!"

"I never lie," he said in such a menacing tone, Marisa paused in her thrasing. "The CIA was at the conference, your target was going to be protected the whole time. Charlie was going to leave with a group of them and taken back to the States, where he would go under the Witness Protection Agency. He wasn't going to kill the anyone."

It took awhile for his words to sink in. "He was going to leave you here for the CIA guys to come and retrieve you."

She went limp in his arms. There was no use resisting now.

"We already have him in a disclosed location. You can see him, but you'll have to wear this." By this point he had released her, stepping away from the wall and straightening his suit, and pulling a blindfold from his inside jacket pocket.

Marisa was stuck in her own head. She couldn't believe that Charlie would turn so suddenly on the mission, the Organization - on _her._ What kind of corruption was this? She stared at the blue-eyed stranger. She couldn't possibly believe him either; he had slammed her into a wall. And yet, when he spoke to her, she had seen the truth in his eyes, and he told her he never lied (in such a way that Marisa could only be too afraid to think otherwise). He said he worked for the Organization…but then again, so did Charlie.

"We have to leave," he suddenly said. He was over by the window now, looking out through the drawn curtains. "We'll take my car. The CIA will know which one is yours."

But she didn't move. "Come on." He had gone back to the door now, opened it slightly and was glancing down the hallway, shoving the blindfold into her hand.

Marisa had no control over her body, she allowed herself to be dragged by the stranger. All in all she felt a little stupid, a little scared, and a lot confused.

--------------------------------

_**Present Day...**_

So Jackson had done it again. He had successfully managed to make Marisa feel like shit and forced her to leave. Well, he hadn't really; it was an indirect way of doing so. She hated the way his snarky comments, that shit-eating smirk on his luscious lips, and of course those to die for baby blues, could crawl under her skin and make her wriggle.

She wasted no time in leaving Miami, heading instead for the overcrowded streets of New York City. It was a place she could easily become lost in the large crowds and the maze-like streets. She was praying that Jackson had done what he was told to do and leave town, the country, whatever that allowed him to not get caught. And knowing him, it wouldn't be too long until he showed up again.

The Organization would call him if they needed him. And from what Marisa could deduce, it not be soon, especially when the damage was as massive as this.

The inner workings of the Organization – something Marisa could never understand – was still in chaos. Active members were slowly coming out of hiding, and only international plans were being carried out. Any speck of trouble in the U.S. was temporarily called off, only because they could be and would be further analyzed, linking the attack on the Keefe and the Lux Atlantic Manager on the plane.

Marisa tried desperately to put the pieces of her life together and setting herself into a routine-free lifestyle. Unfortunately, for her, it wasn't going to last long. She was just going to have to accept the inevitable.

------------------

He was laughing on the inside. _New York City? How typical._

Jackson never knew why the Organization had hired someone as predictable – or as normal – as Marisa Hodges. Sure she was smart, having graduated at the top of her class in high school, worked her way through the Organization while at Columbia, and so on. But they had plenty of brainiacs on hand. Maybe it was her ability to stay calm in a stressful situation, something Jackson _could _do (up until he met Lisa) or her monumental curiosity. Whatever it was Jackson had a feeling that there was more than meets the eye when it concerned the _real _Marisa.

_Marisa_. He liked that name. It was similar to Lisa. )But his thin shoulders shuddered at the thought of Lisa.)

There was a crude sound of tires screeching on asphalt awakening Jackson from his daydream to turn his attention to the black Mercedes. It was barreling down the deserted street, that Jackson now found himself standing in the middle of crossing, just coming off a sharp turn. Before he had any time to react, the car came to an abrupt stop not two inches in front of him.

He didn't react as the passenger door opened to reveal a tall man in a clean, black suit, from the dark sunglasses and the earpiece in his left ear; Jackson suddenly knew what was going on. The Organization was getting on his case by practically running him over in an empty street. The Organization member with his gorilla-like body grabbed Jackson, shoving him into the backseat of the car. It was easier said than done.

Jackson put up quite a bit of a fight. He knew it was his Organization buddies trying to scare the shit out of him, and truth be told, he was a little afraid of their non-humane capabilities. Not a single person noticed the man being fought, unwillingly, into a car. Nobody spoke to him, protocol; nor made any sign that he was even in the car as they drove, again protocol.

The drive lasted for ten minutes. They came to a stop at the end of Lexington Ave at Gramercy Park Entrance on East 21st Street. A limo was parked along the side of the road, Jackson noticed, and the Mercedes he had found himself a captive pulled itself right beside it.

"The Boss is waiting for you in there," said the burly man in the passenger seat with a snicker. The best Jackson could do was glare at the man before dejectedly exiting the Mercedes, which revved off.

"Morning Rippner," said the Boss, once Jackson had settled himself into a seat in the stretch limo. He was nonchalantly puffing at a cigar and staring at his inferior through shielded gray eyes. He rapped his knuckles twice on the fiberglass barrier between the driver's compartment and the carrier of the limo, signaling to his driver, who in response began to merge the car into traffic. Silence ensued into the car turned north onto Park Avenue.

"I'm disappointed in you. And I'm rarely disappointed in any of my agents, especially ones with as prolific as a résumé as yourself."

Jackson mustered whatever confidence he could and attempted to fix his appearance, one wasn't used to being thrown into cars on a regular basis. Yet he found himself unable to say anything to his Boss."

"I'd like an explanation."

"I can assure you sir, it won't happen again." The Boss merely flicked some ash onto the limo's carpet.

"I've already ensured that it certainly _won't_. It's been a hectic week if you can imagine." He reached into a compartment near him. Jackson flinched at his movement. Instead of pulling out a silence gun, as he had briefly thought, the Boss brought a small cigar box into view, proffering one to the other man.

Wanting to get on the Boss' good side he took one, and even had it lit for him by his chief. They lapsed into silence yet again, as the Boss continued to stare at Jackson through his hawk-like eyes. If he had been standing up he would have reached a towering six-foot-one, with thinning ash-blond hair and a sturdy physique. Anyone could have guessed that they were in the presence of great power; Jackson knew he was in the presence of a legend.

"I could feed you to the dogs. I could ruin you from inside out. But knowing you, Jackson, I still think you'd come out on top. I'm not firing you."

It was the words he'd been waiting to hear, and Jackson visibly released the tension in his shoulders. "But I'm not handing it back to you fully. I'm apologetic to say that someone else, a more suitable person, has taken your Number One title."

_Damn it._

"So, you'll have to work to get back to where you were before – ehh…all this – starting at the very bottom. Don't try to change my hand. And has for further punishment: Hold out your hand." Jackson did so, palm upward, not even doubting what the Boss could do, be it far worse than a smack on the wrist with a ruler.

"This is just a _light_ threat." And with that he stubbed out his cigar on the lowly manager's palm, burning a perfect circle in the delicate skin.

He didn't need to be told twice as the limo drove in front of Grand Central Station, a few minutes later. "Here's your stop," the Boss said, casually.

Truth be told, the Boss was being quite generous. Jackson didn't watch the limo drive off in to the city streets, rather he headed straight inside the doors of the Terminal, cradling his burnt hand. He felt much the same way he did before. Yes, he wasn't unemployed, but he was taking some serious steps backwards.

_All because of a fucking pen._ He fumed, running his injured palm under cold water (which wasn't really that cold) in the men's bathroom. _Real low, Leese. Real low._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_Present Day..._

_What's so great about Grand-fucking Central Terminal anyway? _Jackson mused. It was insanely large, with its high ceiling, giant American flag and the _people_. There were always too many things to withstand.

But the Boss had dropped him off here, supposedly to find his way home and then await contact for his next move. That's what he did a lot: wait. Usually he would have found a nice bar to spend his time waiting, or stalk a random person, just for the fun of it. As Number One, he could just about get away with anything.

Now he was more like Number Infinity; dropped to the bottom of the favorite list. Something he was none too happy about. That and his burn. True to the Boss' words (which some considered to have equivalence to any holy piece of literature), it was a _light_ threat, yet still just as painful. The mark was a perfect circle on his lfet palm; the skin was peeling already, charred and dead. Not even an entire inch long, yet it would leave a hideous scar. He had soaked it in the cold water for a good ten minutes, but what he really needed was an Advil and a band-aid. Not a good time to be stuck in Grand Central Terminal where an infection could be the worst of his problems.

&---------------------------------

_December 20th, 1995_

"We are here today to honor the memory of Charles Nathaniel Redwood, otherwise known as Charlie, a dear friend, brother, son, cousin, and much more to all. His passing was the death of innocence, of youth, and of justice; he is a prime example of the hate in our world."

The priest's words were drained and sucked by the acoustics of the vaulted, high stained glass ceilings of the interior of the church. From the back of the room, Marisa could hardly hear the words being preached to the sea of people all dressed in their formal black. There must have been about a hundred of them present, sniffling schoolmates, silent adults and teachers, slouched family members, and one wailing mother, being consoled, however futile.

It was too hard to watch. Marisa knew why young Charlie, the amicable seventeen year old, had died so tragically and so young.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered out of the corner of her mouth to the man taking a seat beside her. He cast his clear blue eyes in her direction and surveyed her a well-trained assassin manger's eye.

"Oh come on, Missy," he was now calling her by a nickname, something she wouldn't allow - like he listened. "You shouldn't be here either. If I were you I wouldn't want the Organization to think you were in cahoots with the little shit."

"This is _his_ funeral," she seethed, practically foaming at the mouth in an attempt to keep her voice down. "He's a kidm Jackson, just like you."

"He's a traitor," Jackson Rippner cut her off. "And I am not a kid."

"How come I never knew about it?"

He paused momentarily to see the burning rage and a you-dare-speak-about-him-like-this look in her eyes. "Are you serious, Marisa?"

The question hung rather troublesomely. "You were his partner. What was he going to say to you? Huh? 'By the way, I'm a big, fat tattletale.' "

"Stop it. Stop it right now."

He merely shook his head, like he was teaching a child something it would never understand. "All criminals have to face their consequence, Missy. That's the way this world works. Nobody likes a rat."

It took a lot of will power not to smack that delicious grin off his face, his seductive full lips curving in such a way Marisa might have fallen to the ground weak in the knees. It was the church pew preventing her from doing so.

"He was doing the right thing."

He simply stared at her, mocking her existence, her stature, her argument. He was making a fool out of the poor kid who made a major mistake. "He didn't know any better," said Marisa, calming herself down.

"He wasn't going to get away with it. I made sure of that."

The cries of the forlorn increased as the ceremony came to an end. Marisa could not bring herself to tears, not with the incriminating eyes of the other Organization member, who right now was not earning points in Marisa's book just because he was the organizer of Charlie's death. She would never forgive him, or the Organization. The least Charlie deserved was a fair judgment for his misdemeanor.

The procession of the family and friends began. Hiding tear-stained cheeks in handkerchiefs, or sleeves and tissues, the train of weeping mourners disheartened Marisa. She remained in her seat, not able to bring herself to see eye-to-eye with any of them. Jackson on the other hand, was looking rather bored.

Once the church was empty, his mechanical tone spoke up: "Are we done here?"

"_We_ are done here, Jackson. But _I_ am not. What made you come here of all places?"

"I'm honoring the dead, Missy. It's called being courteous. Besides," he stood abruptly, adjusting his black blazer. "He was going to hell from the start." And with that he departed with every intention of beating the crowds to the parking lot.

In all her nineteen years of living, she had only been to church once. Her mother had taken her, when she was very young. But she remembered it very well. It had a similar setting to this particular one: gothic-style architecture, stained glass windows, even the same leather bound copies of the Bible in each pew. Her mother had dressed her up in her best dress, one of those silly floral-print tiered dresses in a pale pink. She had a small bow in her hair, and her new shoes, white Mary-Janes. They had left the house early, before her father had woken up. Her mother in a chiffon wrap dress the same color as her eyes, a dark blue, and had pinned a hat to her hair, shielding her pale skin from the sun.

Marisa had skipped up the cement pavement to the front of the church. When she had stepped inside she had to hold her mother's hand, the poor lightening and the eerie organ music making her afraid, not so afraid, but enough to want to hold her mother's hand. They sat close to the front, near the altar, and while Marisa had become bored easily with all the singing and the reading from a very thick book, with too small print, her mother had held onto every word the man (who she had giggled at upon seeing him for the first time due to his long dress-like robe) was preaching to the large audience.

And then when the man-in-the-dress had called on everyone to eat the body of Christ, and drink the Blood, she had passed, thinking "Eww…gross," but her mother had gone up and gladly taken a sip and a taste. By the end of it, Marisa had been surprised that it was only an hour-long service; she thought it had lasted all morning.

Then she and her mother piled into a car and drove, not home but around town. She took her to breakfast at a diner, still wearing her hat and white gloves, watching Marisa fill her plate up with pancakes and scrambled egges drowned in maple syrup. Afterwards, they arrived home. Her father had been awake, and curious as to where his wife and daughter had gone. When mother had told him, he got very red in the face, but didn't say anything. At least not until Marisa had gone to bed that night; after that Marisa and her mother never went to church again. And then the start of Mommy's sickness came.

Marisa shook her head clear of all those past images. She was doing her best not to think about her mother, or her father, or anyone. Upon pulling herself out of the back of her head, she came to realize she was the only one left in the church. The casket – seemingly miles away at the very front of the church – was being carried out through a side door, to be later buried. The end came rather too soon for young Charles Nathaniel Redwood.But she, and that intolerable Jackson Rippner (along with one or two unimportant Organization members), was the only one who knew the truth.

_December 21st, 1995_

_The heat was unbearable. A heavy, hot, burning rage was all around her, licking their orange flames in her direction. She tried to scream only to become chocked by the thick, black smoke. Her eyes were closing, the scene before her – a car, people running and screaming, and a church steeple…? – was slowly deteriorating as she sank into the blackness._

Marisa did not want to open her eyes. She was enjoying this kind of drug-induced slumber her mind wandering right on the edge of consciousness. In the background she heard a constant beeping noise, keeping a steady pace with the pounding of her head in her ears: her heartbeat.

Her eyes opened in a flash, and she regretted it almost instantly. For the sight before was none too comforting. It was a sterile, white room, a tiny bed surrounded by machines, tubes in her arms, and that horrible anesthetic stench only home to hospitals. And it was bright, too bright, that her eyes stung. And then the pain, immense pain on every limb, in every joint – even lying still, it hurt, to breathed, to think, to listen, to do anything. They should have given her more painkillers.

An all too familiar voice reached her ears. "Good. You're awake." By the tone in his voice, he didn't sound too pleased nonetheless.

"Ja – "

"Jared Richmond," he finished for her. "I convinced the nurses I was your long-time boyfriend, otherwise they wouldn't have let me in."

Marisa only groaned in response. She wasn't going to deal with Jackson Rippner as she lay on her deathbed.

"Don't you want to know what happened?"

"Spare me. I need morphine." Her voice cracked and creaked, her vocal cords not used to speaking.

He told her anyway. "Car bomb. Every since Charlie gave the CIA your name, they've been keeping an eye on you. So they implanted a small bomb in your car while at his funeral."

"Why am I not dead?" It could have been better than attached to this bed with _him._

The young assassin manager laughed. "Because it's the CIA. Our just a nineteen year old pain in the ass..."

"Aw, thanks Jack."

He ignored her. "Nothing but a thorn in their side. They just wanted to scare you into pulling-a-Charlie and giving them what they want. But we both know that's not going to happen."

He whispered the last part, leaning in closer to her pillow as she kept a firm glance on the window, not wanting to meet his eyes. If it weren't his eyes making her melt at any given moment, it was his voice.

The curtain dividing the room from the other occupant, a sleeping old man awaiting heart surgery, suddenly swished open revealing a round nurse, with rosy cheeks, and large curls.

"Hello sweet-ums. How are we feeling this morning?"

The young man beside her assumed his role as concerned and loving Jared, rubbing her free hand. Marisa found no comfort in his touch. Nobody answered the nurse.

"My name is Ashley, Nurse Ashley. Welcome to Farmington Hospital! Do you mind telling me what your pain level is on a scale of one to ten? Ten being the worst."

Marisa scowled. There was a reason she avoided hospitals. "Eleven," she said. She watched Nurse Ashley deliberately write a '10' in her file, nodding the whole while, her large gray curls bobbing.

"Well, I'll adjust your morphine levels," she reassured.

"When can I leave?"

The nurse laughed, it sounded like someone releasing air from a helium balloon. Marisa flinched, and Jackson' grip on her hand tightened. "Whoa, slow down there tiger. You've still got third-degree burns that need to be treated and re-bandaged. And you can't go anywhere unless we contact family. Lucky for you, Mr. Boyfriend here," she pointed her pink felt-tip at Jackson, (Marisa wanted to puke) "was at the scene when your car exploded. You should have gotten your engine checked. Parents or siblings around? Oh, and we'll need your name."

"No there's nobody. Can you up the morphine already?"

"Sweetie, I'm just trying to help. No need to get bitter. Your name?"

"Madison Holmes," she recited her pseudonym like second nature. The nurse jotted that down as well, then pressed a button on the machine behind Marisa's head. Slowly the pain in her body began to disappear as the drug dripped down the tube right into her blood stream, replacing everything with a kind of soothing numbness.

Finally she could relax.

"I just need to change your bandages." It was Nurse Ashley. "Don't fall asleep on me yet."

In the background lull of the narcotic she could still hear the voices. "So were you two at Redwood funeral?"

"Yes, he was a school friend of ours. Such a tragedy." If Marisa were in the right state of mind she would have scoffed at his sudden change in behavior. She was always amazed at his seemingly flawless ability to transfer from cold-blooded manager, responsible for Charlie's untimely death, to innocent, blue-eyed young adult. However she had long ago succumbed to the feeling of the morphine.

"Such a tragedy," Nurse Ashley was shaking her head, her gray curls tickling Marisa's cheeks as she bent over her, checking her bandages. "Drunk driving accidents are rare in this town, but at this time of year, right before the holidays, people booze it up." Another chuckle, this was like bubbling water. "Well her bandages look fine," Nurse Ashley concluded, changing the conversation. "We should keep her here another day or two, just to make sure the burns don't get infected. There's not much we can do about her clothes, they've been destroyed by the fire."

"We'll figure something out," his voice spoke breaking that barrier in Marisa's haziness so that she heard him.

Nurse Ashley smiled approvingly. _Such a nice boy_, she thought leaving the young couple alone.


End file.
